


running out of lullabies

by sina



Series: there is a road, there is a way [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Addiction, Anxiety, First Love, Homophobia in Hockey, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23995177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sina/pseuds/sina
Summary: Everyone knows what happened to Jack when he was seventeen.Well, everyone thinks they know, and Jack hasn’t made it a habit to correct them.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Series: there is a road, there is a way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730311
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	running out of lullabies

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello, welcome. I hope you, wherever you are, are safe and healthy. 
> 
> This is a project I've been mulling over since around the time I was posting the middle chapters of 'hard feelings.' Please note that this chapter is unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine alone. I'll probably add more tags as we go, and could potentially change the rating, so keep an eye out for those. Many thanks to Sam, Jared, and the discord for all you do and are.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_We still groped for each other on the backstairs or in parked cars  
as the roads around us  
grew glossy with ice and our breath softened the view through a glass  
already laced with frost,  
but more frequently I was finding myself sleepless, and he was running out  
of lullabies._

\- 'Little Beast,' Richard Siken

Everyone knows what happened to Jack when he was seventeen. 

Well, everyone thinks they know, and Jack hasn’t made it a habit to correct them.

That’s the fuck of it, isn’t it? That something about Jack’s past always precedes him, that there’s very little he can do about it if he doesn’t want to repeat the story thousands of times, if he wants to keep a piece of himself private; if he doesn’t want to stretch himself too thin. It feels too easy to fall short, when everyone expects the worst of him, expects him to return to who he used to be. And it’s not like they all deserve to know the full story, anyway.

He says he thinks the rumor’s funny whenever someone asks, but secretly knows he’ll never get used to constantly reassuring people he was never addicted to cocaine.

It’s a stupid rumor.

But only because, of course, it wasn’t cocaine.

This is a story about fear. This is a story about love. This is a story about falling apart. This is a story about Jack Zimmermann. 

Jack was extremely young when he knew that hockey would be his life.

His father pushed him - he pushed himself - for his whole youth, and his future began, or so he had assumed, when he was drafted to the Rimouski Océanic, the summer he turned sixteen. He was so happy, so smug, that he almost forgot to keep track of who else was drafted with him. He scrambled to get his things and wrote the names of his future teammates in an illegible scrawl, deep in the pages of his strategy notebook.

 _Howie Lowell_ , he scribbled. _Jeremy Fox_. He added their stats in the margins. Two days later, he added a name from the American draft to the list: _Kent Parson_. Something about that name stuck with him. Kent Parson, Kent Parson. There’s no way he could have known at the time, no way he would have guessed why that could be. Still, it rang in his ears long after the broadcast had ended. 

Jack wondered what his future teammates would be like. Wondered if they help him, or if they would get in his way.

At sixteen years old, Jack had his whole future planned out.

He knew two things to be certain: He would train his hardest, play his hardest, and dominate the QMJHL; and he would be drafted into the NHL when it was all over. Someday he might play for the original six, if he got his way. He was hard-headed, his mom would always say, and he knew she was right. But the facts were that he did the work, he got results, and this time, these next two years, would be no different. That, and there was no question in his mind that he not only could, but had to, meet his goals. No one in his life - chiefly himself - would settle for less. 

Alone in his room at his new billet, he forbade himself from worrying about what his dad would say, what the look on his face would be, were he to fail. 

It didn’t work.

He barely slept the night before his first day of training camp. Hockey was the most important part of his life, a natural part of him, and tomorrow was the beginning of his future in hockey. Tomorrow was when it all started, and he was surprised to find out how much he dreaded it, energy frying his nerves.

He finally drifted to sleep as the sunlight feebly drifted out from behind the curtains. He dreamt of skating in circles on his dad’s backyard pond, going nowhere. 

***

“Have fun! Make friends!” Alicia had told him when she and his father had dropped him off with his billet family. She was teary as she pulled away, and Jack had pretended not to care, scowling in embarrassment.

Bob had leaned forward and murmured, “Give ‘em hell, Jackie.” 

Jack intended to, but he felt like his father’s tone had given him hives. He scratched at his forearms, then self-consciously pulled the sleeve down. There weren’t actually any hives, and Jack felt stupid.

His first day was awkward, painful like a growing muscle. All the guys knew him - not personally, not in a significant way, but because he was Bad Bob’s kid. A couple asked for autographs. Jack swallowed a teaspoon of bile and tried to grin, failing as usual. 

At least he could prove himself on his skates.

Kent Parson had eagerly skated up to his teammates, that very first day, and introduced himself. When he and Jack met, he was both unassuming and, Jack gleaned from his chatter, unrelenting that they were going to tear up the league together. He obviously knew who Jack was, commenting about watching the draft, but made no mention of Bob - to Jack’s immediate relief - and wouldn’t stop yammering about playing together, even earning an early reprimand from coach Hull. 

“Parson! Shut your fuckhole or it’s bag skates!”

He ducked, apologizing before skating away. Jack thought he caught a smirk, anyway.

Jack managed not to embarrass himself right away. After the tension locked around his neck loosened somewhat, he was able to do what he really wanted: assess his teammates, and start strategizing.

“You look like you’re going to have a conniption,” Parson commented when they broke for water. “Relax, man! It’s just hockey.”

Jack huffed before replying, “Hockey is important.”

Something about that made Kent snicker. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed. “What else are we here for?”

“The chicks and the parties,” someone interjected. Jack turned and noticed #18, a tall defenseman, making faces at Kent and him. Kent made a face right back, and Jack thought that, maybe, he just might come to like Kent.

“Oh, shut up, man,” says #24. “Hey, kiddos,” he said, turning to Jack and Kent. “Don’t worry about Millsy, here, he’s harmless.” 

Jack was about to say something when “Millsy” rolled his eyes and slid away, off to better conversations.

“You’ll get used to him.” #24 reached out his hand and Jack took it, shaking loosely in the other boy’s strong grip. “Name’s Will. Beauchamp. Guys call me Beau.” 

“Nice to meet ya,” Kent said brightly when he took Beau’s hand. “Not gonna lie, I’m kind of looking forward to the parties, too.”

“We have a few ragers, yeah,” Beau said, grinning. “Hope to see you both there.”

Jack felt unsure about that. He meant it when he told himself, every day for weeks, that he was here to focus on hockey.

Beau seemed nice, at least.

When they left after practice, Kent caught up to him quickly. “Hey, Zimmermann,” he called out. “Can I have a ride? My billet dad is still at work.”

“Euh, sure,” Jack said. “What’s your name again?” He asked, even though he didn’t forget.

He wanted to kick himself. Awkward, anxious piece of shit. They climbed into his new Jeep, Jack’s 16th birthday present.

“Kent Parson,” he replied, and Jack thought back to when he wrote Kent’s name in his strategy notes. “Some of the guys are already calling me Parser.”

“Sure, okay.” He paused. “So… you’re American.” He immediately felt dumb again.

“Sure am,” Kent said. “I’m from New York, but I was drafted out of a boarding school in Mass.”

“Mass?”

“Massachusetts, duh.”

“Ah. Uh, my mom went to college there.” Kent nodded, and Jack cursed his inability to small-talk. He knew what Kent was going to reply; he just didn’t know what else to say.

“Nice car,” Kent commented. “Can I turn on the radio?” He didn’t wait for permission before fiddling with the dials. “Ew,” he complained when Jack’s favorite college rock station blared out of the speakers. 

“Don’t touch my presets,” Jack whined, but Kent proceeded to mess with the buttons until Katy Perry blasted out of the stereo, making a satisfied sound.

“Ew,” Jack mocked, and Kent looked personally offended before he began belting along. Jack wrinkled his nose, then suddenly realized he had no idea where he was going.

“Turn right up here,” Kent said, as if reading his mind. He directed Jack the rest of the way in between song lyrics, and Jack stayed pointedly silent, even when Kent elbowed him and raised his voice. They arrived and Jack abruptly cut the power, the radio silencing in an instant.

“Wanna trade numbers?” Kent sounded giddy when he unbuckled his seatbelt. He whipped out a new flip phone. “This is my first ever cell phone,” he added. “Can’t wait to take some pics with it.”

Without warning, he snapped a photo of Jack, cackling when he lowered the phone. “Look, dude, your face!” Jack leaned over to take a look, and his photo-self looked grumpy, halfway blurry, caught in the pixels of Kent’s miniature screen.

Jack suddenly felt tired. “Here,” he said, pulling out his own phone. “Put your number in, I’ll send you a text.” Kent did so, and Jack shot him a quick “Jack Zimmermann,” which also made Kent laugh. It was a clear, bright sound, and Jack’s fingertips itched. 

“Good,” Kent added with finality. “Hey, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hopped out of the car and clapped a hand on the hood as he passed in front.

It looked like, despite his best efforts to ignore his mother, Jack may have made a friend.

***

“Tell me about him!” Jack could hear Alicia’s warm grin.

“I don’t know, Maman, we met a week ago,” Jack shrugged. “He’s good on the ice. But he likes terrible music.”

She stifled a laugh. “Well. That’s subjective, Jack.”

“But I guess Kent’s Top 40 is better than Foxy’s. He listens to something he called… electro-industrial?”

Alicia laughed openly that time. “How about Foxy?” she asked. “Do you think you’ll be friends with him?”

“He goes to school the next town over, so I don’t know.”

“Keep me updated, cher.”

“You know I will.”

He lied awake that night, thoughts racing. Things felt fragile, the summer dwindling to a close, the season looming. He felt like he was treading water, waiting for his muscles to give out. Waiting to drown.

He recognized his fear, but felt lost in it, unsure of what to do to make it stop, unsure of how to keep breathing evenly. He buried his face in a pillow and screamed wordlessly. 

It didn’t help.

***

School began on a frosty morning in September. Jack overslept, which wasn’t like him. 

“Jesus, you look like shit,” Kent whispered when he stumbled into class, leaning forward from the desk behind him.

“Shut up,” Jack replied, partially because he didn’t want to get in trouble, and partially because _fuck off_ , Kent.

Jack dozed in fifth period, which wasn’t like him. He apologized profusely to his calc teacher after class; she kindly said she didn’t even notice. Kent snickered when Jack joined him in the hallway; Jack shoved him into a locker.

Jack forgot his lunch, which wasn’t like him, and turned down Howie’s offer to bring him coffee, which wasn’t like him.

Jack fumbled almost every one of his passes in practice, which wasn’t like him.

Jack lied to his mother, saying the day went off without a hitch. 

Which wasn’t like him.

He slept fitfully that night, but at least he slept. He would need it, if he wanted to win their first game that weekend.

Unfortunately, despite Jack and Kent and their seemingly immediate liney chemistry, the Océanic had a distinctly average start to their season. They lost their first game, won the next two, lost the next two. The team just wasn’t meshing the way Jack had hoped they would. His father reminded him that these things took time, that he shouldn’t expect everything to come together straight away. He suggested all these ways Jack himself could improve, and Jack whined that he had been trying all of those ways. His father asked if he had worked hard at it. Jack slammed the phone on the receiver after the conversation, fuming.

“If you break the phone you’re buying us a new one!” Sylvie, his billet mother, shouted from the next room.

It was impossible to blame the less-ideal start entirely on the older guys, because Jack’s research indicated that they did just fine the year before. Jack supposed they were doing just fine now, but also decided that ‘just fine’ simply wasn’t good enough.

He started carrying his strategy notebooks with him everywhere, just in case he had a fit of inspiration in the middle of dinner, lunch, even class. His coaches nodded carefully whenever he presented them with his findings, but he felt a bit… patronized by them. As if they only cared because he was Bad Bob’s kid. Once the idea dawned on him, he couldn’t shake it from his mind.

It only served to make him even more determined.

Sylvie had other ideas about it.

“Please, Jack,” she said wearily. “Please put the notebook away when you’re at the dinner table.”

“Can’t,” Jack protested through a mouthful of chicken. “I’ve gotta figure out the proper formation against the Chicoutimi’s defense, I know they have a weakness --”

“Enough!” Sylvie looked harried. “Please, Jack, it’s bad manners.”

He sighed, but tucked the notebook into his backpack anyway.

“She’s right,” said Luca, his billet father. “There’s time after dinner for that.”

“I have homework,” Jack grumbled, but did what he was told.

***

Jack’s anxiety and frustration didn’t improve over the next few weeks. He didn’t know why or how he got wound so tightly, but he felt like the slightest prod could cause him to burst, bits of Jack-shrapnel littering the ground around his feet.

Bantam had felt entirely inconsequential compared to Juniors. Now, it felt like his whole future was at stake, and now, he struggled to function every day, failure on his mind and on his heels. One day, Miller tripped him during a drill, and Beau and Kent both had to hold Jack back. Hull chewed Jack out about being a shit teammate, and Jack’s eyes burned with unshed tears. He begged off talking to Bob, unwilling to admit he’d gotten himself in trouble, knowing the patronizing tone Bob would take when telling him _he should be working harder to keep his nose clean_ ; that _this was no way for a leader to act_.

It was all so much.

He vowed then and there to stop cooperating in practice, knowing how petty he was being, but not particularly caring. If they wanted to win games, they would have to win him back first. He shunned the other players; most of them rolled their eyes and called him a drama queen.

Kent, however, just stared from the parking lot as Jack drove away without him.

He was right, though: the team lost again without Jack’s cooperation.

He let the coaches scream at them. He let them swear. He still refused to be the first to apologize.

Naturally, Jack’s plan of avoiding the other guys lasted for about three days before Kent had had enough. The other guys might not have cared so much, but for the dismal practices they had to suffer through. Jack would wonder, weeks later, if they had asked Kent to be their liaison, or if Kent had taken it upon himself. He never asked. He’ll never know.

After practice, the night before another home game, Kent lingered, waiting for Jack.

Jack, as usual, took longer than everyone else to shower and get dressed. He dwindled on purpose, deliberate, so that he wouldn’t have to leave with the other guys, wouldn’t have to deal with them talking trash in front of him. Kent snuck back into the locker room and waited quietly by the door while Jack packed up his things.

When Jack finally turned around, he jumped with surprise. “I thought you left,” he said, schooling his voice to sound cool, unaffected, while his nerves felt frazzled, power coursing through his body. I’ll never get used to this, he thought - the way his skin felt, the current running through it, when forced to look into Kent’s eyes, forced to reckon with the bare emotion there.

They were grey, he noticed. He thought they were blue. 

“We need to talk,” Kent started - “Don’t roll your eyes at me!” He kicked at nothing on the floor. “What the fuck happened, dude? You’re being so weird to me. Like, I get that you’re mad at everyone else. But I didn’t -- I didn’t think you would hate me, too. And I get it if you don’t want to give me rides all the time. But I’ve been carpooling with Foxy, and his van smells like tuna.”

Kent meant it as a joke. Jack didn’t laugh.

“So, like.” Kent tried again. “What gives? What did I do to you?”

Jack would feel bad, if he weren’t so angry.

“Nothing,” Jack said, and tried to push past him. But Kent wouldn’t budge.

“Seriously,” Kent pressed, almost whining. “I’ve been nothing but nice to you, and we work so well on the ice, it just… it fucking hurts, dude, that you act like you don’t like any of us.”

“I don’t,” Jack tried again, but he couldn’t look Kent in the eye. Kent scoffed.

“I’m sorry, okay? For what it’s worth, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

“I don’t. I’m not,” Jack tried for the last time, but the words stuck in his throat like they were made of peanut butter.

“Jack.” Kent still sounded wounded, the hurt affecting his voice. “Do you know how awesome it is to have a linemate as good as you, as hardworking as you? And how much it sucks - how much it fucking blows - to be treated like this by someone who’s supposed to be my friend?”

Jack said nothing, staring at a mark on the wall.

Kent reached out to him; Jack jerked away. “Christ, Jack! I’m trying to help you. These guys all want to help you. But we can’t if you keep acting like - like you’re pissed off all the time!”

“I’m not pissed off,” Jack murmured.

“You have a hell of a way of showing it!”

Jack rounded on Kent suddenly, nostrils flaring. “Why won’t you just leave me alone?” 

The move drives Kent away, backing him into a row of lockers. 

Kent let out a small gasp of pain, a small depression appearing between his eyebrows. He swallowed suddenly, gaze flickering to Jack’s eyes, and when Jack looked back, he recognized something unfamiliar in the clear, glassy gray of Kent’s eyes:

He recognized fear.

“Shit,” he swore, immediately backing off. “I’m-- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -- I’m really bad at this. I’m so fucking bad at this.” He crashed down onto one of the benches, holding his face in his hands.

Kent breathed hard above him, staring down to where Jack sat. He cleared his throat.

“Hey.” He sat next to Jack, wrapped an arm around him, despite Jack flinching from the touch. “You can talk to me, you know. We’re lineys, we can be bros - I’m here for you.”

“I don’t think - I can’t -” something awful bloomed in Jack’s chest, some horrible clawing feeling that overtook him, taking aim and bursting any chance he ever had to make Kent his friend after all.

But Kent didn’t leave. Jack’s breath stuttered, he gasped, and Kent didn’t leave. Instead, Kent placed his hands on Jack’s shoulders, murmuring quiet somethings that Jack couldn’t hear over the rush of his heart thudding in his ears. 

“Jack, look at me,” he finally heard, and he looked up to see Kent’s worried face looking back at him. “You’re panicking,” Kent adds gently. “Just… listen, and keep breathing.”

Jack nodded reluctantly. “Listen to me count, and breathe in,” Kent instructed. He counted to four. “Now breathe out for four counts.” He repeated the counting. Jack tried to do as he said, gasping for air at first; but after several rounds of breathing, Kent demanded his attention again.

“Okay. Tell me five things you see.”

“Euh. I see… the door. The cinder block walls. A mirror. Foxy’s practice jersey that he left behind like an idiot. The showers.”

“Okay,” Kent repeated. “How do you feel?” Jack said nothing, for a few moments, just breathing.

“I’m sorry,” he finally croaked, hanging his head. “I’m really sorry, I don’t - I don’t hate you. I’m sorry for panicking. I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

“Okay,” Kent says. “Apology accepted. But why did you act like that? Just because of a trip?”

“I just --” Jack sighs in aggravation, still not feeling totally back to normal. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “everything is so fucking hard and it sucks and no one gets it. No one fucking gets it.”

“Hey,” Kent says. “I get it, Jack.”

“No, you don’t. Does your dad have four Stanley Cups? Does everyone ask you for someone else’s autograph? Is it your fault every time we lose? Does Miller trip you for fun, does everyone laugh at you? Shut the fuck up, Parson.”

“It’s not your fault if we lose! We’re a team, Jack, and you’d know that if you bothered to try to be a part of it. They’re laughing because you’re so goddamn serious all the time. And I’m sure your dad is super proud of you.” Kent paused. “And no, I will not shut the fuck up.”

Jack snorted, looked at the floor.

“I… never met my dad,” Kent confesses. “I can’t imagine what it’d be like to be, like, living up to a legend. I grew up trying to live down being abandoned.”

Jack’s anger faded away as quickly as it had risen. He coughed.

“I’m sorry. I - I didn’t know.”

“My mom had a rough time while I was growing up. But she’s marrying my stepdad this summer, and all his kids are great. Things turn out okay, if you wait long enough,” Kent reassured him. 

Jack’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I guess I’m less of a teammate and more of a burden, eh?”

“Nah, Jack. We’re friends now, don’t you think?”

Jack paused, considering. He supposed they were.

“How did you know that breathing thing, and the other thing?” Jack asked. “Who taught you that?”

“Oh.” His eyes darted away, remembering. “It was an assistant coach I had in Bantam. I used to get so anxious before games, and he taught me the breathing to help me to calm down.”

“Do you ever still do it?” 

“Sometimes.” Kent shrugged. “I don’t usually need to now that I have a script.”

“A script?”

“For Klonopin,” Kent said, then reached into his bag, fumbled with its contents for a moment. He pulled out a prescription bottle full of little yellow, circular pills. “They keep me calm, but they also kinda knock me the fuck out, so like, I don’t use them a lot. Want one?”

Jack considered, then thought, fuck it. If it’s good enough for Kent... “Sure,” he said.

“Can you give me a ride home first?” Kent asked. “You shouldn’t drive when you take one of these.”

Jack nodded, relieved that confession time was over.

Jack pulled into Kent’s billet driveway and cut the engine, realizing how grateful he was to be back at their routine. “I really am sorry,” he murmured. “But thanks for… for everything.”

“Just promise me one thing.” Kent reached for his bag.

“Y-yeah?”

“You’ll come out with the guys and me sometime?” Kent asked. “The parties have been lame without you.”

“No promises,” Jack said, smiling slightly.

“You want a pill, you make a promise,” Kent replied, grinning mischievously in response. 

“I don’t need pills,” Jack scoffed playfully, but Kent popped the bottle open and poured one out anyway.

“It’ll help you relax,” Kent said. “Who knows, maybe you should talk your parents into getting you some of your own.”

“Maybe,” Jack said. He remembered, not fondly, the night before, spent tossing and turning, how he felt helplessly angry and anxious and alone.

“See you tomorrow,” Kent said brightly, and he stepped out of the Jeep, slamming the door behind him. He smiled over his shoulder as he walked away. It was a smile that said, _get used to this. Get used to me._

Something fluttered in Jack’s chest.

He waited until Kent reached the door before peeling out of the driveway. He fingered the pill in his hand on the drive home, just… wondering.

His billet parents were, as usual, busy with late shifts. There was a tupperware of spaghetti waiting for him in the fridge, a cordial note from Sylvie taped to the top. He ate half of it, tossed the rest away. His stomach felt weird. His heart felt weird. He rinsed the container and filled a glass of water from the tap. He might not even need one, the pill was so small - now that he looked at it, it’s actually chipped around the sides, a jagged edge to the chalky shape in his calloused palm.

Fuck it, he thought again, and he downed the pill, gulping the water after it.

For a while, nothing happened. For a while, Jack wondered if Kent gave him a sugar pill.

But when it hit him - a gentle rush, a trickle and then a flow - Jack realized something: this was the first time in his entire life, in 16 years on this earth, that he had ever felt completely calm.

It’s almost like someone cracked an egg over his head, but instead of runny goo, it’s quietness dripping down over his face, onto his shoulders, all the tension draining away. Wait, he thought. Is this what normal people feel like? Is this what other people feel like all the time?

He felt so peaceful. He was… he couldn’t get over the idea of this being his new normal, this being his every day, this in opposition of the tension, the grinding teeth, the constant fear.

He’d never felt so utterly at ease.

Before he could enjoy it too much, though, he realized what Kent meant when he said the pills knock him the fuck out. Jack drowsily made his way from the kitchen to his bedroom, flopped over on top of his bed, and drifted off to sleep. 

When he awoke, he actually felt rested. That was new, too. It had been an hour, and he had a number of texts: from his parents, from his billet parents, from Kent.

KENT: good talk today! hope the meds help a lil bit  
JACK: I passed out. Feeling a lot better, though.  
KENT: fuck yah! they’ve been great for me

Jack didn’t respond. He would catch up with Kent tomorrow. He did, however, text his mom:

ME: Hey. Can we talk soon?  
MAMA: Of course, cher. Call whenever.

His mom seemed reluctant, but agreed that Jack could see a doctor. “I had no idea it was that bad.” She sounded deflated.

“It’s only been recently,” Jack lied. “I, uh, I started panicking after practice today and my -- my friend told me I should ask for help.”

“Oh, was it Kent?” Alicia brightened, as she always did when she hoped Jack was branching out.

“Yeah,” Jack said. He didn’t want to talk about Kent just then, still thinking about the way his heart had stuttered earlier, thinking about how Kent’s olive branch had made him feel… different. “But, just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Can you, um, can you not tell Papa?” Jack asked, voice quiet.

Alicia paused. “Are you sure about that, Jack?”

“I’ll tell him eventually,” Jack assured her. “I just want to try it out and decide for myself first.”

She hummed. “As long as we can talk about this soon.”

“Okay.” Jack let out a relieved breath. “Maybe when the team’s in Montreal next.”

“That would work,” Alicia agreed. “I love you, Jack. I just want what’s best for you.”

Jack exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“So tell me about practice today.”

“Do I have to?” Jack groaned.

“Sweetie, I just like to know what’s going on with you.”

“I know.” Jack repeated. He gazed out the window at the empty street. “I know, Maman.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot more of this fic written, but it's mostly disjointed scenes that I need to stitch together somehow, so I'm not sure when I'll be updating. Yell at me at lvmi.tumblr.com if you like!


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